‘The killer is now calling himself “The Blitz”. He used a hammer, then torched the flat. The Coroner says, despite the fire, they were able to do a full identification. Cross was not so much bludgeoned to death as beaten to pulp. They never saw such a beating in all their years. The killer has his own column in the papers.’
Brant finally moved, asked,
‘How’s that work?’
‘He calls a hack named Dunphy, gives him the details.’
Porter indicated the cups, said,
‘There’s tea and... Club Milks.’
‘I’m not doing tea. Dunphy, did you say?’
‘Yes, you know him?’
‘I do.’
Porter shuffled the avalanche of paper, asked,
‘How did it go in New Cross?’
‘New Cross? What’s in New Cross?’
‘Jesus, Brant. You were going to check out a likely lad, remember?’
Brant didn’t answer and Porter added,
‘Three days ago, you were to check on him.’
Brant was up, said,
‘I’ll go now.’
Porter stood, reaching for his jacket.
‘I’m coming with you.’
As they hit the street, a man approached. He had the appearance of an accountant with his hand in the till, mid-thirties with his head shaved to a sheen, he said,
‘Porter Nash!’
‘What?’
‘I’m Dunphy, from The Tabloid. I need to ask if you have anything?’
Before Porter could answer, Brant said,
‘I’ve got something.’
Dunphy swivelled to face him, said,
‘Yeah?’
Brant hit him in the gut and kept moving. As they got to the car, Porter asked,
‘And what was that?’
‘Didn’t I say already? I knew him.’
Barry was having a lie-in; he found fame more exhausting than he’d expected. The previous night he’d gone out and got steaming, really put them pints of lager away. Then a curry and collapsed into bed.
A pounding at his door. He shouted:
‘Fuck off, I gave at the office.’
He was suffering — a headache from hell and his stomach doing a curried jig. More pounding, then:
‘Police.’
There is no such thing as a character curve. There is a character and there is a curve. I don’t know where they join each other.
A guy starts the film hating blacks and by the end, he’s shagging a black girl; there’s his character curve. Well, thank you very much. Have I really spent all my adult life learning that?
Falls didn’t know how to dress to charm. She knew about intimidation, manipulation, but when you wanted a person to not only like you but to do you a favour, then what? She settled for her uniform. Roberts’ contact, Nelson, was probably old school, she decided. Reminded herself to play the subservient card. When she’d finally got Nelson on the phone, he’d been gruff, said:
‘What?’
‘Chief Inspector Roberts suggested I talk to you, sir.’
‘You’re a woman?’
She wanted to shout:
‘No wonder you’re a detective.’
Kept her voice neutral, said,
‘Yes, sir, a WPC.’
‘Bloody nuisance.’
She didn’t answer that, then he rasped,
‘What do you want?’
She took a deep breath, said,
‘A few nights back, an Arab got a bad beating.’
‘Oh, that? Don’t worry, we got two of the scumbags. The third one we havn’t found yet but we know who he is.’
Looking down at her hands, she realised her fingers were crossed, said,
‘He’s the one I want to discuss.’
Silence as he weighed the numbers, she continued:
‘Could I buy you breakfast?’
‘I can always use a breakfast.’
‘Great... in an hour?’
‘Two hours. There’s a café called Romero’s, know it?’
‘Yes.’
She didn’t.
Click.
There’s a level below transport café — not a level you’d want to reach. Construction workers will warn you away from them, that’s a warning you better heed. Known to cab drivers as ‘dives’, you literally dive in and out, coffee being the only item related to a taste zone. Romero’s was a dive. It took Falls the two hours to find it. Being in uniform didn’t help. An OAP asked,
‘Going to shut it down? Not before bloody time.’
And a young woman who said,
‘Oh, you don’t want to go there, it’s ghastly.’
It was.
If the windows had ever been cleaned, no one remembered. A grubby sign proclaimed:
‘Tuesday’s special, Toad-in-the-hole.’
She went in. Dim fluorescent light bathed the interior in suicidal yellow. All the tables save one were empty. Falls had projected Nelson as a Brant clone: big, thick, ugly. A man in a tweed jacket was sitting at the furthest table. In his mid-thirties, he had a mop of thick brown hair, a face that BBC newsreaders would describe as craggy and a solid build. He smiled and she felt a stir. The kind of smile that bathes you in its welcome, made you feel its delight was solely at the sight of you. He said,
‘Falls?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Are you going to guard the door or come and sit down?’
Why the hell hadn’t Roberts told her the guy was a hunk? Now that she thought about it, he’d had a sly smile as he told her. Totally thrown, she moved and took a chair. Up close, Nelson was even better. Brown wide eyes, ah... yes. She was a sucker for those. Pulled her mind to a halt, chided herself: So what? Roberts implied this guy was a bigot and that wiped out any physical attraction... right, course it did.
Then realised he was speaking, heard:
‘Falls, hello, you in there?’
‘Sorry. With the killings, we’re all a bit strung out.’ He smiled and she felt the pang as he asked,
‘What will you have? I strongly advise you to avoid the toad-in-the-hole.’
‘Tea. Tea, sir.’
Shook his head.
‘Enough with the “sir”, I’m Bob.’
And held out his hand. Long tapered fingers and — wonders — clean nails, cuticles pushed back, hands that were cared for. She immediately checked for a ring, nope, no ring. His grasp was strong and she wanted to shout,
‘To hell with foreplay, let’s do it.’
The proprietor emerged from the shadows, looking but a drink from the street. Nelson said,
‘Tea and toast for two.’
She adored that ‘two’. Turning back to her, he said,
‘You can smoke if you want.’
‘I don’t smoke, sir... Bob.’
He laughed, repeated,
‘Sir Bob! Mind you, if you did smoke, it could only help in here, maybe kill off the bacteria. To tell the truth, though, I don’t like women who smoke.’
She wanted to shout:
‘Me neither.’
But bit down. He reached in his pocket, took out a notebook, began,
‘Okay, we’ve got two of the guys involved in the assault.’
She grasped at the word:
‘Assault? He’s not...?’
‘Dead? No, God knows how, they did a real number on him. When those skins start in with the steel-cap boots, it’s serious. The two we nabbed are singing like canaries, gave up the third guy without a second thought and he’s — let me see, I can hardly read my own writing — John Wales, known as “Metal”. This is the guy you wanted to discuss?’
‘Yes.’
‘What is he, a snitch?’